A person can't sleep, and the poem catches that exact, miserable moment. The speaker says they are "at war" with their own bed, which turns a place of rest into an enemy. Worse, the mind is crowded with "scenes and company and everything else," a jumble of memories or imaginings that won't leave them alone. The loose, trailing phrasing makes the clutter feel endless.
Then comes a small, odd move: "I count to one." Most people count sheep up to large numbers, but this speaker can't even get past the first step. It's funny and sad at once. The last lines read like an instruction the speaker gives themselves: "be nothing / but the farce." That is hard to pin down. It may mean giving in to the absurdity of lying awake, or trying to become just the ridiculous performance of sleeplessness itself. Either way, the mood is tired, wry, and slightly desperate, with a dry humor that keeps the frustration from turning heavy.